


Miracles

by Morvith



Category: The Old Guard (Movie 2020)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angst, Approaching Doom, Be Careful What You Wish For, Captivity, Domestic Violence, Gen, Legends, Murder, POV Third Person Limited, Pyrrhic Victory, Quotes from Schindler's List (1993), The universe in general and the author in particular have it in for James Copley
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-08
Updated: 2020-11-08
Packaged: 2021-03-08 22:29:02
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,103
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27460474
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Morvith/pseuds/Morvith
Summary: Miracles cannot be replicated. Can I tell you a story?Copley found them. Merrick kept them. Kozak studied them.In the end, it did them no good, no good at all.
Comments: 8
Kudos: 51





	Miracles

**Author's Note:**

> _Though the mills of God grind slowly; Yet they grind exceeding small;_   
>  _Though with patience He stands waiting, With exactness grinds He all._
> 
> (Friederich von Longau, translation by Henry Wadsworth Longfellow)

I.

Can I tell you a story?

Once there was a girl, a very pretty girl. Some say she was up in the mountains picking flowers and she slipped. Some say she was running away from a pack of soldiers, and they chased her to the top of a tower and she leapt.

Either way, she fell from a great height, but the Holy Virgin sent two angels to catch her and carry her down to the ground unharmed.

That's not the point. The point is what happened after.

One version of the story says everybody in her village called her blessed, a saint, told her that God favoured her, that _la Madonna 1_ loved her best. Another says that they laughed at her and didn't believe her when she told of her prodigious escape.

Either way, she grew proud. One day that pretty girl went back up on mountain, or back up on the tower and this time she leapt. Once again, she leapt.

This time there were no angels.

The biggest piece of her they found was an ear.

Do you see the point, now?

Ah. Matthew, chapter 4 verse 72. It's a good quote, yes, but not quite what I meant.

The point, doctor, is that miracles cannot be replicated.

What was that? Any sufficiently advanced technology is indistinguishable from magic? Clarke's Third Law, I believe. Another interesting quote.

But, doctor, it was not technology that made us. So what does that leave?

II.

She looks out of the window, the lights of London twinkling in the night like so many stars. Reporting to the CEO right in his penthouse, and she knows what other people think, what other people say, but it's alright, it's worth it.

What does it matter? They don't know, and if they did, they wouldn't understand.

“Are you with me, Meta?”

His voice shakes her out of her revelries. “I'm sorry, Mr. Merrick.”

He smiles, claps a hand on her shoulder. “I know you are disappointed, but we must be patient. Three years are nothing. Nothing!” His expression suddenly changes, storm clouds gathering. “It's too bad they proved less useful than anticipated during the Covid crisis. Those bastards lost us a pretty penny there...Anyway,” He smiles again and the storm dissipates. “There are still many venues left to explore. We have all the time in the world.”

_Do we?_ She thinks suddenly. _Or do they?_

“I assure you, I have the utmost faith in you.” His smile turns into a grin and he leans towards her, conspiratorially. “I was going to keep it a surprise, but it seems you need to hear it now. It'll cheer you right up.”

She blinks. “A surprise?”

“You are about to get another specimen. A woman. After this, you'll have the full set. Isn't that wonderful?”

  
She smiles in spite of the cold dread gripping her stomach. “Of course, Mr. Merrick. Absolutely wonderful.”

III.

James signs again on the line and leans back in his chair. “Please, tell me it's the last one.”

Matthew Pargetter, Amanda's financial advisor – even after all these years, James can't quite bring himself to call him _his_ financial advisor – starts gathering up his papers. “You're all set, James. Unless...” He hesitates, and James unconsciously squares his shoulders, already knowing where the conversation is headed. “Are you certain you won't reconsider your investments with Merrick Pharmaceuticals? You have seen the last figures, it's the only area where you are steadily losing money.”

“So you've said,” James crosses his arms. “You know how important investing in medical research is for me.”

“I understand that perfectly, but Merrick is not the only company available. Nor the only one you have invested in, if I may remind you. Look, there's nothing wrong with moving funds to more successful titles.”

“I want to keep supporting Merrick.” James insists. “I'm certain they are on their way to great discoveries.”

Matthew sighs. “So you've said. And so have they, for the past eight years.”

James does not wince. “I have faith in them.”

“All right, then.”

He forces himself to smile. “Look, if Merrick Pharmaceuticals doesn't reverse its fortunes in the next two years, you have permission to tell me 'I told you so' as often as you wish. I'll even give it to you in writing, if it makes you feel better.”

“I do hope you are right.”

“You'll see. Now that work is done, how is Claire? And Nicholas?”

If Matthew ever thought it weird that he prefers to keep small talk for last, he has never shown the smallest inkling. He can't hold back a smile at the mention of his wife and son and his whole face is transfigured. “They are well, thank you. Nicholas is fretting about his SATS3 already, but we are sure he'll do well.”

“I'm sure he will, too. He's a clever boy.”

“His teacher still complains his essays are too short, but he's concise even at the best of times.” Matthew closes his briefcase and stands. “Thank you for your time, James. I'll see you in a couple of months, unless you change your mind.”

“See you in two months. Best of luck to Nicholas.” James says, offering him his hand.

Matthew shakes it. “I'll pass it on, he'll appreciate it. Have a good evening.”

IV.

Where has time gone? Steven Merrick turns away from the window, London's bright lights giving him no joy when his company's future looks all the bleaker.

His, too – last time he hung on by the skin of his teeth, but it's only a matter of time before the board of directors manages to take over.

The gall of them! His company, _his_ , with _his_ name, not theirs! His legacy!

He takes another sip of his whiskey. It doesn't make him feel any better, but he does it anyway.

For a mad moment, he thinks of taking the elevator down to the maximum security lab, ordering security to give him a gun and shooting those six goddamend fucking freaks in the head.

“It's not like it would stick anyway...” he mutters, draining his glass. “Or I could slit their fucking useless throats, one by one...”

Except he would have to destroy his clothes, and the lab would need extra cleaning and the freaks would return, as they always do. He'd just create more problems.

Steven almost laughs. If it isn't the entire situation in a nutshell!

(Part of him, a very well-hidden, often ignored part of him, shies away at the thought of seeing them again, coming under the scrutiny of those blank, cold eyes. Shark eyes, he thinks every time he sees them. The piercing stare of saints' statues and mosaics in ancient churches Lisa always insisted on visiting...)

He grabs the bottle and fills his glass again, some of the expensive whiskey sloshing out on his hand, on his Persian carpet. He blinks, staring at the wet stain before moving away.

Fuck it, that bitch isn't here to see it anyway. If she gets the carpet in the divorce, she can pay to have it cleaned. Fucking bitch...

It wasn't supposed to go like this, none of it. Twenty years of trials, experiments, of the best and latest equipment, of guards and cells and restraints and what did they get?

Nothing. Absolutely nothing.

Nothing in their cells, in their tissues, in their nervous system. Nothing in their DNA, in their genes, no matter what they did or where they looked, it was one dead end after the other.

No, worse than that. It was a disaster after the other. Their cells either did nothing at all or... well, they reproduced, uncontrollably. The one and only result they ever reached, the only discovery they ever made: how to create treatment-resistant, surgery-defying, rapid-spreading, deadly-within-hours tumors.

(Lisa and Grace were watching Disney's Fantasia when he got home that night, if only it hadn't been bloody Mickey Mouse the bloody Sorcerer's Apprentice... He still doesn't remember throwing the vase through the tv, or ripping the speaker from the wall, only the red veil over his eyes and Lisa's face and Grace's terrified wailing... their fault, that was their fault, too...)

Their endlessly regenerating organs, which he had thought to sell on the black market to recoup some of his losses, always cause hyperacute rejection4, no matter how carefully the receiver was selected.

They can't even use them to study the course of new diseases, since they can't be infected more than once! Twenty years after the Covid19 pandemic, it still smarts – all that time and money wasted, forcing them to play catch-up with everybody else...

He almost misses those times. Back when there still was hope, when they didn't know that the limits of the freaks' usefulness had already been found and passed...

A waste and a nuisance, nothing but a waste and a nuisance! Six fucking albatross around his neck and no way to get rid of them!

He is no closer to discovering the secret of eternal life than he was the first day they got them. He cannot kill them. He cannot let them go. They're still there, only a few floors below, he doesn't even dare transferring them somewhere else.

A couple of years ago he considered offering them to a government, selling them to the highest bidder, but that too had never been more than an idle thought: any government who got them would be even more interested than he is in keeping them secret. He'd be their first assignment and one they're sure to take gladly.

(Cold eyes, merciless eyes, staring from the deep...)

Damn them. Damn them all.

“We were supposed to change the world...” Meta's own words, those were, right before she left, the fucking traitor. He can still see her standing there, sad and small and defeated. No Nobel prize for her, no international acclaim, only the pitying glances of her peers for the woman who wasted her life and carreer on Merrick's folly, whatever that may be.

She had worked for some kind of no profit for a while before dying in a car accident. A pity, a real loss for science, but she had ever been an idealist and she was starting to regret. He couldn't risk her conscience would outweight the NDAs she had signed.

The wreath he had sent to her funeral had been expensive, but extremely tasteful. Her sister appreciated it, her thank you note was very proper.

Perhaps he should look into transferring them. Perhaps he should just do nothing and wait for them to become the board of directors' problem. Those bastards think they can run his company so much better than him, let's see what they do with _them_...

The ice in his glass has melted, his whiskey now hopelessly watered down. Steven drinks it anyway.

Several floors below, an alarm starts blaring.

V.

“Are you sure you are well enough to drive?” Matthew asks worriedly as he walks him to the car. “I can call you a taxi...”

“I'm fine, really. Just too old to be dancing the night away. Give Nicholas and Noor my congratulations, it was a beautiful wedding.”

“I'm sure the song is almost over, if you would wait just a minute...”

“Don't worry, Matthew. Let the newlyweds enjoy their evening with their friends.” He opens the car door, laying his jacket on the passenger seat with the wedding favour. “It's a nice night for a drive. Thank you again for having me.”

“Thank you for coming, James. It was our pleasure.”

“Goodbye.”

James Copley drives away. As he waits for the gates to swing open, he turns the radio off.

Good old Matthew Pargetter. He and Amanda danced at his wedding so many years ago, today he watched his son get married, alone. They sent him a present, too, when Nicholas was born, Amanda had insisted so – James can't quite remember what it was. A stuffed toy? Or maybe a onesie?

He was actually happy that James came, but then, he has generally been happy with James' newfound desire to be out of the house.

Would he still be happy if he knew what caused it? If he knew what he might have brought to his son's wedding...

His grip on the steering wheel tightens. He wants to tell himself it's ridiculous, they wouldn't attack a wedding full of innocents just to get to him, would they?

Twenty years ago, they wouldn't have, it would have been unthinkable. Now, though? He doesn't know. He's really not sure. They did burn Merrick Pharmaceuticals to the ground when they escaped... Nine months in and the investigation is nowhere near done.

He'd feel better if he could know more, but by now he has been out of the game for too long. He hasn't had any tie to Merrick Pharmaceuticals in years, he's not even a blip on the investigators' radar. How ironic.

He's the only one left now.

It's fitting, perhaps. It started with him, it should end with him.

He just wishes they would hurry up about it, but maybe this is part of his punishment. Thinking of punishment abruptly reminds of Booker – Sébastien Le Livre, more appropriately. The miserable, desperate man he used so ruthlessly.

Have they forgiven his betrayal? Their years of captivity? Of torture, because that's what it was in the end. Useless, pointless torture.

He wonders if he'll be with the others when they come.

A little over one hour after leaving the wedding, he's back home, safe behind his alarms, sensors and cameras. The house, always uncomfortably large, feels even more so now that it's three quarters empty – furniture, pictures, everything that had historical or monetary value has been donated, sold or put into storage with his last mementoes of Amanda, the ones he misses the most but couldn't bear to see destroyed.

This was her house, though, her childhood home. He hopes they won't burn it down when they come.

In spite of the drive and the long day, he feels too nervous, too on edge to sleep. He makes himself a cup of tea, checks his cameras – both current feed and the day's recordings – then, for want of anything better to do, turns on the tv, channel surfing aimlessly.

An black and white image catches his eye – two men's hands, clasped tightly, a violin playing. He stops, wondering if it's some old classic like the ones his mother used to watch, then the frame changes and he wishes he hadn't.

Schindler's List. It is an old movie, now, almost 50 years old. A classic. He raises his hand, opens his mouth to order the next channel, but he's not fast enough.

_I could have got more. I could have got more. I don't know. If I'd just... I could have got more._

His hand falls. His mouth clicks shut. He's pinned into place like a butterfly.

_...eleven hundred people who are alive because of you. Look at them._

_If I'd made more money...._ A soft, mirthless laugh. _I... threw away so much money..._

So did he, didn't he? Gave it to Merrick for years, Amanda's money, and Merrick never delivered on his promised miracles, not one of them. Matthew told him so, over and over, but he hadn't wanted to listen.

_There will be generations because of what you did._

_I didn't do enough._

He thinks of the Amanda Worsfold Copley Foundation, how much good it did even without six immortal warriors in its basement. How much it could have done if he had started it earlier. Too little, too late, but Matthew will see it doesn't fail, Matthew and Sarah and Kristina and Jamal and Megyn... This time, he chose well.

On the screen, Oskar Schindler strides towards his car. James knows what comes next, he doesn't want to see it, doesn't want to hear it. 

_Ten people right here. Ten people. Ten more people. This pin. Two people. This is gold._

It's like being spellbound in a nightmare. 

_Two more people. He would have given me two for it, at least one. He would have given me one. One more. One more person._

He abruptly stands and rushes out of the room, Neeson's broken voice chasing after him, so desperate he was to get away he forgot to snap the tv off.

_I could have gotten one more person... And I didn't! I didn't!_

The lights turn on automatically as he moves through the house. He doesn't quite know where he is going to until he finds himself in front a certain door he has kept locked for years. He couldn't bri ng himself to dismantle his research, but he couldn't bear to look at it, either. 

So much for bravery. Few men have ever had the chance to know the depth and breadth of their own cowardice as well as he does.

The key turns easily in the lock. He fumbles for the switch for a moment, but then the lights shine just as brightly as in the rest of the house. The air is stale and full of dust.

He stands in the middle of the room and looks around, taking in the sheer amount of data he collected. Every photograph, every article, every paper had been a piece of a puzzle he had never properly looked at, too consumed by his urgency to find proof, to find them...

_Whoever saves one life, saves the world entire._ He missed that particular line by a few seconds only, yet he hears it clearly in his head.

All those people, and they were just those he managed to track down, those where the connection was fresh enough, obvious enough... What of the other ones, the ones before? The ones lost in the mist of centuries? The ones who went back to normal lives, who faded into obscurity?

The world has not stopped turning, burning, while the immortal warriors were... incapacitated. How many could have used their help? How many could have been saved if they hadn't been locked away?

“How many did you kill, James?” He wonders out loud.

There's no answer.

Then, the power goes out. The house plunges into darkness.

* * *

* * *

1La Madonna = the Virgin Mary

2Matthew 4:7 = Jesus answered him, "It is also written: 'Do not put the Lord your God to the test.'" (New International Version)

3SATS: grammar school entrance exam in the UK educational system. Taken around 10 – 11 years old.

4Hyperacute (organ) rejection: the transplanted organ is rejected within minutes to hours from the transplant

**Author's Note:**

> The legends Nicky tells in part I are real, including the bit about the ear (especially the bit about the ear): the "official" version is the one with the tower, but the one set on the mountainside was the very first version I heard, told to me by somebody who... seriously misremembered the story.  
> But isn't that just the thing with legends and stories? They get passed down and changed and misremembered? So that's why I went with both. 
> 
> In case you are wondering about Andy's immortality... I honestly have no idea.


End file.
